


And that would not be enough

by JanuaryBlue



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bottom Zenos yae Galvus, Dom Warrior of Light, Duskwight, Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), F/M, Graphic Description of Zenos' eyelashes, He has to work for it, Masochist Zenos, Nudity (sort of), POV Female Character, Switching, Top Warrior of Light, Topping from the Bottom, WoL is More Than Human, YOU have to work for it, but not right away, dark knight warrior of light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-05 16:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18369383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/pseuds/JanuaryBlue
Summary: More and more andmorehe wanted.These feelings, emotions - the thrill of his heartbeat thudding in his chest, how his pulse began to quicken with just the image of you in his mind. With each meeting the pull goes stronger; your vicious brutality, scathing words, and unadulterated passion to match even his own. How Zenos had ever lived without you, he could no longer remember and did not care to.And when the feelings fade, when the moment is over, the seconds passed painfully, slipping away like sand through his fingers - he is left with naught but the memory of his eyes reflected in your own, a mirror of himself, filled with anger and rage andlife.Oh, how he wants you.





	1. Delerium

Finding the oasis had to be the high point of your day.

After the terrible defeat at the reach, the healers fussing over you and all the various political debate that had proceeded, you had promptly wandered off to find yourself a place to bathe. You’d almost decided to Return back to Gridania when you stumbled on this place – clear, large, and most importantly secluded.

The water was unbelievably clean, pure and colorless as the air. Stepping into it had been like pouring a balm on all your wounds. Aching limbs and burning skin, hot beyond measure from the summer sun, soothed at once as you walked inwards. It was heavenly, for certain.

Moreso because you knew you would not be seen here – you had fought off a number of troublesome creatures on your way to this area, higher up and far from most of the settlements in the area. There were no trails or other distinguishing landmarks that indicated there was any water here. You could undress freely, without arousing any suspicion.

You did, and it felt nice. Even the hot air on your skin was better than your own burning armor, and with the water it quickly became an absolute pleasure. Diving into the pond headfirst – it wasn’t deep enough that you couldn’t stand in it, but it was well large enough for you to be submerged – so you didn’t have to see any of it, you let the water soak your hair, which clung to your head as soon as you came up.

You tilted your head back, gazing up at the sky and savoring the air on your wet face. You didn’t look down.

It was nice to forget for a little bit. You didn’t need to look at the scars, be reminded of how different you were. Of why you wore such heavy armor.

Anyone else could be proud of having scars; a badge of pride. _See all these people who tried to kill me? This is the evidence of their failure._

You’d… you’d also like to think of it that way, yourself. But the Warrior of Light was undefeatable, stoic, implacable. You could not be so much as scratched, much less scarred, in the eyes of the people.

Hydaelyn, it seemed, had agreed. For all the blows you’d taken, for every attack that would have left a mark, a streak of light marred your skin. Not even scars, anymore – they were more like the underneath of a coating peeled away, where a powdered finish had been wiped away to reveal shimmering skin underneath. Unnatural in every way, bright and shining as Hydaelyn had claimed your soul was. A beacon of hope, perhaps a mark of your power. To never die, to rise up after any blow or any defeat.

Even when you were killed, even when it should be a mortal blow, you rose again. You knew from experience how hellish, how damnably terrifying and impossible such an enemy was to face; the Warriors of Darkness had been the worst of your foes by far. If Hydaelyn hadn’t intervened, you might have fought forever. None of you could have died. Again and again you rose up, no matter your opposition.

And every time it left a mark in the place of a scar – unbroken skin painted in the color of light itself. You didn’t know what you’d ever do if you ever received some killing blow to the face.  

Wear a helmet, perhaps? Not a solution you liked, but it had served the Viceroy well enough. Just remembering the encounter was frustrating. That Garlean, so heavily armored he may as well have been walking in magitek armor, had darted around you as though it had been child’s play – when he deigned to speed up, anyways. Most of the time he had simply walked slowly at you with blade drawn.

His strikes hadn’t even been that strong. What has gotten to you was his abilities. The powers he’d exhibited, stunning you in place, throwing you back, shocking you, draining you and leaving you near death with his strange techniques. Thinking back on it now, it was actually reassuring – he really had no skill with the blade at all.

Only a pale, brutal parody of what a _real_ samurai was like; you couldn’t claim to have completely mastered the blade, of course, but you at least had a proper master, and you could see not a single hint of Samurai techniques in any of his mannerisms. You weren’t certain that Musosai would have had a better chance at fighting the Viceroy than you had, but he was far more skilled in the art of the sword.

 _Art._ What a strange thing to call it; though you’d heard enough from Musosai to have a respect for his opinion, killing was killing, however you did it. Garlean had understood that all too well. The Garlean had understood _only_ that and nothing else; nothing about what that sword he was using was actually meant to be used. Why it was shaped the way it was, how the samurai had maintained their discipline to this day.

No, he strode around the field of battle swinging his blade in a technique you did not recognize; difficult to dodge but harming you little outside his extraordinary techniques. The Viceroy fought in a style entirely his own, untouched by the refinement of countless masters and years of teaching. If you hadn’t been seething with disdain for the man, you would have called it unpredictable, brilliant, even.

But the Warrior of Light did not deal well with a wounded ego, and so any recognition of his skill was shoved away, buried deep. Instead you remembered his slow walk towards you after your evasions, strolling around the field of battle as though they were city streets; as though he had nothing to fear.

As though he was perfectly at home. Comfortable.

Again you splashed at the water, coating your skin in coolness, and brought more water up to dip your face into. You kept your face buried in your hands, out of the sun, until the very last of it trickled from your fingertips. Slowly you let your arms fall again, looking down. From this angle the scars could almost be mistaken for the gleam of the sunlight against the water.

A sigh escaped your lips, because why not? No one was here to ask about it.

It was strange to see yourself sigh. That unfamiliar face – was that you? Was that how you looked? Did other people see this face and think you looked stoic – heroic? It wasn’t anything special. It was just… normal. How you always looked.

Lips tilted slightly, jaw tightened and eyelids heavy; it wasn’t a hero’s face at all. It was just – it was you. Your eyes dragged over your features almost unwillingly, settling on your hair. Its color darkened with wetness and tinted blue in the waters below. Then they shifted to your ears, how much further they seemed to stick out with your hair stuck to your skin. The sky and clouds behind you, the sun; you take it all in. Anything to avoid looking at the reflection, having it stare back at you.

The moment you thought of it you _had_ to look, and only closing your eyes stopped you. It was silly to not want to see your own eyes. Really, it was.  

What exactly was going to be looking back? It wasn’t any different than looking at your hands, or arms or the rest of your body. It wasn’t going to _change_ anything. There wasn’t some incredible revelation waiting to be seen, it wouldn’t change anything.

Still, it was unseemly to look one’s own victim in the eyes. Fray would not have approved.

And you tilted your face up, slowly, opening your eyes only once you faced the sky, hot and blue and burning as it was. Until your wading around distorted the waters below, you didn’t look back down again.

This was your home now, this oasis. And Ala Mhigo. And when they sent you away to fight the war in Doma that would be your home. When Eorzea needed you to slay primals once again, then that was your home. Where the fighting was, there was your home. Even now there’s no doubt that there would be another battle and when it came –

Meeting him again would be _glorious._ Perfect. Even now the seconds seemed to pass too long; even now it was tempting to run over to Alliance and just get things on with, make progress in this war against that monster of an enemy. To tear his provinces from him one by one, hone yourself on his men and his armies until he could no longer walk around in battle as though he were taking some leisurely walk – no, you’d make him _dance._

And dance you would, together, longer and longer until the sun had set and he was drenched in sweat; until he realized he was tiring and your rage had only just _begun_ to be sated. _He_ would dance _for_ you as you walked circles around him, taunted him, overwhelmed his monstrous strength – god, could he even imagine that happening to himself?

The way he had spoken of you and your allies – “entertain me” – made it plain. Just those words echoing in your head were thrilling enough; what an absolute _pleasure_ it would be, to give that Viceroy a taste of his own treatment. Show him who the _real_ savage was.

In fact, his vicious, predatory manner was far more _savage_ than you had ever been. And it hadn’t been enough. He still couldn’t kill you, with all that raw and untampered strength, with all his abilities that left you stunned and laid you low, it still wasn’t enough to kill you. There would come a day he would live to regret walking away and letting you live. From the corner of your eye, a bright scar shimmered on your arm, nearly blinding as it reflected the sunlight. It was a shame on that day he wouldn’t know at all that you _would have lived anyways._

Your lips twisted into a smile you knew other people would call “ugly”, were you not the vaunted Warrior of Light. So unlike anything your friends would understand; what it really meant to be the Warrior of Light. It was strange that anyone could fight with you on equal terms, let along defeat you as he had. And he had done it through the sheer force of his might, all while shrugging off your every attack – it surprised you even now, remembering it, that someone could actually _be_ that strong.

Was that what your enemies had thought, encountering you? Was that what Thordan had thought, when he asked you _what you were?_ As if you even knew the answer. You didn’t know what _he_ was, either. It seemed strange to you, unbelievable, even, that a Garlean could use techniques like that. Blasting you back, stunning and defeating your friends with little effort. He could not use magic, you had seen no devices on his person – so what was he?

If you were to ask him, would _he_ know the answer? He had walked so confidently, dismissed you so easily. Called you pathetic and turned his back to you, leaving your battle without even a scratch. No, he wouldn’t have to pause to think for a moment, if he deigned at all to answer.

It almost hurt to think that was how Alphinaud and the others saw you. The face of a hero that never sighed. They could never have known – telling them would be a mistake. Why should you tell them, when they couldn’t understand without experiencing it – without placing demands on them that they were unable to fulfill? Far better to just deal with these questions on your own, to not worry them so with troubles beyond their power.

You shook your head, water freely sprinkling off your hair, and smoothed it back out of your face.

All your attacks had done nothing to the Viceroy, that was all there was to it. For all that encounter had rattled you, once you grown strong enough to not be affected by his abilities, he would have no way to hurt you, and the only problem left would be how to hurt _him…_

A little more malevolent than your usual line of thought – that was easy to admit. This wasn’t how you’d thought of – how you’d felt about your other enemies. Even Zephrin had been a matter of revenge, of similar passion but nowhere near the same source. It was good that Alphinaud and the others didn’t know. It wouldn’t do anything but hurt them. Ruin their vision of the perfect Warrior of Light, the one they could rely upon no matter what, their savoir and hero. They would never know.

You brushed the water over your skin again as the sun burned it away, the natural heat of your own body only drying the water out faster. If it weren’t for the searing sunlight, it would be nice to float back, but in the oppressive heat of the day it was better to have as much of your body in the water as possible.

However great the gap, however long it took, it would not be difficult in the slightest. Again and again this had happened, and again and again you had emerged victorious.

Even with your eyes closed you could almost _feel_ the scars shining from below the water. You always won. There was no other option, no path but forwards, towards victory. You could not help but defeat him. It would just take some refinement, practice and training. You would develop more abilities, discover new ones, grow your strength… as you’d been doing for what seemed like years since becoming Warrior of Light.

Like everything else, everyone else, he would fall before you. With a sigh you submerged yourself to feel the cool water chasing the sun’s lingering heat from your face.

Your hair hung heavy from your head, sticking to your face once you rose up. Wet locks rested on your cheeks, trailing water down all the while until you finally pushed them out of the way. There wasn’t anything to wash it with, but as it slowly faded from wetness into dampness and then to dryness it would be cooler for you all the while, under the Ala Mhigan heat.

It would be delusional to think that the Alliance would allow you to take a leave of absence and go back to Eorzea after what happened. They needed you now more than ever; in fact Alphinaud was most likely planning this very minute, waiting for you to come as though he would not be permitted to speak without you at his side.

You snorted, dipping your arms back into the water. Likely they would just send you off do something _else,_ even. It might not be too awful to be sent to the other continent, to fight on the Doman front, but you weren’t a fool – either way, you were still fighting someone else’s war for them, as you had in Ishgard, and before then.

Then again, would you really prefer Ishgard to this? It was always entertaining to wonder if the heat was worse than the cold. Certainly, the cold was easier to fight, but something about it just gnawed at the core; ate into your bones, bit deep and seemed only to let go after hours and hours in the heat, after sapping away sensation and leaving you numb. The heat burned into you, lent you its strength, spurred you on even in your exhaustion, propelled you forwards under this wide-open clear sky, in the bright light of day.

Dripping wet, soaked to the bone; this was how you wanted to spend your time in the sun. Not running from one place to another, moving endlessly under the unbearable heat. Burning alive in your own armor.

Heavy footsteps interrupted your thoughts, the likes of which you knew your allies did not make. No, by the sounds of it, the one making them was large. At least as tall as you, or as heavy. Heavier, even, another _clank_ of boots on the ground told you. Armored.

Not that many Eorzeans wore heavy metal armor that sounded like this. Fewer still were large enough to make this much noise as they walked. And among those, they all would have _said something_ to you by now.

No, this was no member of the Alliance or some random denizen of Gyr Abania. Which left only one possible identity.

“Hm. A Garlean?” You announced, still not looking back at the intruder. Well, he’d signed his own death warrant. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think your sort had any interest in our savage customs, like _bathing._ ”

You make no move to turn around. The water goes up to just below your shoulders. Most people would be treading water at this point. There was no doubt in your mind that the Garlean would wade through the water to get to you, dressed as he was.

The silence was almost as overbearing as the heat. Weighty and permeating the air, you felt it in your lungs with every leaden breath.

Having stopped the steps, your intruder was likely at the water’s edge just now. Quite a few fulms away, but not so far it would be impossible to identify you. Of course, you weren’t sure if your face was that well known among Garleans, either way.

Still, the Garlean didn’t speak. Doesn’t draw a weapon or move to attack, doesn’t approach. It only got more and more annoying as time went on. The water on your shoulders had all evaporated away, between the heat of your body and the surrounding air.

You dove down into the water, completely ignoring the enemy present, swimming forwards a bit and enjoying the feeling of being completely immersed, the sun’s oppressive rays far away, separated by cool, clear waters. Smoothly the water parted before you, without resistance and yet still filled with weight that made you work to propel yourself through it.

Like heaven against your skin that had been bared to the sun, left under the heat to swelter and burn. Being entirely submerged like this made you want never to go up, but you needed air.

When you rose out of the water you had swum to where it came up to your hips. It was a small oasis, and you’d been in the deepest part of it. Even the sound of you letting out your breath, taking the hot, dry air deep in your lungs. At least the air didn’t feel too scalding against wet skin, but you knew it would dry quickly.

The Garlean still wasn’t saying anything. Hadn’t moved to leave, either. Which meant he was just standing there. Watching you.

You took another deep breath. “What’s your game?”

“Turn around.” The deep voice commanded you.

You nearly laughed. Who did he think he was? Deciding you want to find out, you obey the order, only to be met with a familiar Garlean dressed in the heaviest plate you had ever seen. The Viceroy. From the Reach.

The one who’d beaten you.

So you turned, your naked chest bared for all the world to see. Except it was, of course, _not._ The only ones here were you and him, and if it were anyone but him you probably would have been able to take them out already. Shamelessly you met his face, his eyes – at least he hadn’t worn that stupid ugly Garlean helmet. You didn’t bother to hide yourself, your nakedness. He was the one who’d come here while you were bathing, after all.

In a gesture both strange and somewhat amusing, the Garlean did, in fact, stare.

“What are you looking at?” You snapped at him as you cross your arms below your breasts. Like he’d never seen a woman’s body before.

 _That_ can’t be true. He may have been a monster on the battlefield, may have been an Imperial bastard – but he must have spent most of his time around _other_ Garleans. His power alone would have at least got him something, but more than that – his _face._

It was an entrancing sight, not unlike a painting. It’s like it was _made_ to be looked at, gazed upon and adored.

. To be fair, though, considering present circumstances, you were probably entitled to all the staring you pleased. Gods, he was beautiful. The bluest eyes you had ever seen, a face so perfectly crafted you could mistake him for an angel. Smoothly curving jawline, elegant nose set just in the very center of his face, and cheekbones that belied his regal status. Long, golden hair that shone in the sunlight.

And gods, those eyes. Like the sky, blue and heated and completely overbearing as the day, as the unstoppable desert heat that had driven you to this oasis. Intense and shadowed by lashes, darker and longer than your own, even. Really, that a man could be so beautiful – it was almost criminal.

What would that face look like, you wondered, when he knew his own, when you were the one to throw his body across the battlefield like a discarded weapon? How would those gorgeous features twist when you had him under your boot? Strangely enough, you could almost see those lips quirking upwards at one end, just ever so slightly. Even the image of it in your _mind_ is beautiful, what would it look like –

The habit of fantasizing, of assuming, was one you had long since abandoned, never to tread upon again. And with the way he looked at you… You needed to bring yourself back to reality.

Most likely the Viceroy had simply never encountered Eorzeans in your state of undress. From what you had seen of Garlean women, however, they were around your stature, if a bit stockier of build. There was a reason Lucia had gone so easily about Ishgard hiding only her third eye.

Or perhaps he recognized you and was surprised you had survived. You felt an ugly laugh try to claw up through your throat, mocking and bitter. As though you would have been allowed to die.

For moments, minutes, perhaps, you stood there as he eyed you, looking you up and down like a hunter might his prey. It was entertaining and infuriating all at once. Who told him he could look? And _what was he looking at?_

It comes to you, in a moment, when those gleaming eyes blink at you and you remember what he must be seeing.

“Ah. The scars.” You said, idly. Dismissively.

For you, it was a small personal detail, nothing of note, certainly not anything you allowed your comrades to know of... If you had your way, it would stay like that, but it seemed his Royal Highness was determined to drink his fill of the sight.  

“So, the savages have their own healing ways. ‘Tis formidable indeed to return you to such a state.”

You could feel his eyes on you. On the crisscross of lines and blotches, covering your body like a coating of paint. But it wasn’t a coating, it was your bare skin, your natural state of being. Did he think magic had done this? Considering he was a Garlean, and likely didn’t know that much about magic, it wasn’t unlikely.

Brightly marked, shining scars glowing against your real skin as clear as day, warm and smooth to the touch just like the rest of your body – with your eyes closed you would not be able to tell where a scar began or where it ended, as though your skin had never been broken in the first place. Unmarred as a newborn babe in spite of all your injuries, as natural as though you were born this way, and as unnatural as breathing in water.

“Hardly.” Telling him wasn’t really a good idea, but what use was the explanation to someone who wouldn’t understand, anyways? It would be nice to at least get it out. “What did you think the _Light_ in Warrior of Light meant?”

“Is that what the savages call you?” He mused, with surprisingly little of the contempt you’d heard from other Garleans. Somehow, it only made his blatant lack of respect even more apparent. “I cannot claim any great interest in your titles.”

“That’s your mistake.” You turn your back on him – the ultimate insult, were you on a field of battle – and wade through the water towards your things, making no effort to cover your body.

And of course you turned your back on him, because why not? He couldn’t kill you before. You knew he couldn’t kill you now. It would be a waste of time to even fight so soon after being defeated, knowing you wouldn’t get anything out of it again. If he wanted to attack you, he could do it. He _would_ do it. There wasn’t anything you could do to stop him from making the attempt, but...

You wouldn’t die. Couldn’t die. There was nothing at all at stake here for you.

That much _had_ died at the Reach. Along with all your fear – true fear, the fleeting feeling! – that this new enemy you faced may actually be able to end your life. Gone in an instant, with his blade broken against your body. You weren’t going to die, there was never anything at risk.

His steps rang out, but you were only able to hear them over the sound of your wading through the water because of the weight behind them. You kept your gaze fixed on your things at the shore.

“Their own personal eikon slayer. Their weapon, their attack hound they send to brave foes they dare not face themselves.” There was the characteristic Garlean contempt you’d been expecting; absolute dismissiveness with only a trace of disgust. “Warrior of Light. That is _their_ name for you.”

And somehow when you stepped out of the water you could barely focus on drying yourself – at least the sun will do that for you – and instead you were struck by his words.

Warrior of Light. Weapon of Light. Somehow he did not strike you as concerned about the harm you visited upon others, friend and foe alike. He had used a katana, after all – a blade with only one edge. Perhaps it had not occurred to him that wielding a weapon such as you had brought your allies no small measure of misfortune, as well…

No, you could tell already he wouldn’t care about such a thing. It wouldn’t have bothered you that much, if you hadn’t also stopped caring some time ago.

You did what you could, where you could, come of it what may. There was nothing to regret. And here this man was, completely foreign to your desire to help others, your desire to save people. You couldn’t even blame him. It was foreign to you now, too.

So focused you were on your thoughts that you did not hear him approach, closing much of the distance between you with swift, silent steps he should not be able to produce.

“What would you have _me_ call you, warrior?” Only through your years as an adventurer, accustomed to surprise after surprise, do you avoid jerking in shock.

Even after that you have to resist the urge to spin around to face him. His voice was _entirely_ too close to you. A fulm or two, perhaps.

“You want my name?” You asked, and continued without pausing, giving him no room to respond. “Give me yours first.”

Of course you knew it already. Zenos yae Galvus, the merciless Viceroy of Ala Mhigo and leader of the Twelfth Legion. You knew his name. Most likely he knew that you knew, as well. And _still_ he apparently did not know yours.

Unacceptable. If he wanted so badly to hear your name from your own lips, he could stand to return the favor.

“Zenos.” He said lowly, in that deep voice that nearly made you shudder.

Something was strange about it, though. The name was drawn out, accentuated, as though he had not oft spoken it before.

True to your word, you responded with your own given name, simple and clipped in your response. More foreign sounds, a string of syllables your mouth wasn’t used to producing. People didn’t often ask you for your name. Either because they knew already, or didn’t care.

Zenos said it back to you just after hearing it, like a child trying out a new toy. Your name sounded smooth and low and entirely too beautiful from his lips. Even just now he’d said it in that drawl, deep and rich and not entirely unlike chocolate. You couldn’t stop the thought that you want to hear more and more of it.

So you didn’t – you just pulled on your pants with this monster looming behind you, staring at you all the while.

You’d faced worse. You’d faced much worse. If he was expecting you to be scared of him, he’d better have prepared something worse than primals, worse than all your friends dying and disappearing and you being framed and cast out in suspicion.

Unwillingly your mind came up with a few examples. Blue eyes, not unlike Zenos’s own, smiling at you, and then closing and never opening again. A broken shield. Eyes in places where _eyes did not belong._ Unblinking in their malice and unending hatred. And all the things yet to come – your friends staring at you, demanding not that you slay the Primals, but that you _worship_ them –

“Do you expect I will not kill you here and now?”

The question wasn’t even surprising. Wasn’t anything but annoying. What did he expect? For you to cower away? Run? _Flinch?_

It occurred to you that he probably didn’t want to see that at all. You couldn’t say the same. A little fear would do the Viceroy good, you thought. Would he be scared if he knew? It struck you as unlikely. He’d only come closer in the moments since he spoke.

“No, you won’t. You wouldn’t dream of fighting me unarmed, unprepared. You want a _fight._ ” You pick your shirt and other clothing to pull over your head, not looking back, allowing the predator to loom behind you. “And I’ll give you one. But you’ll have it on my terms, Zenos.”

Whatever his reaction was to your casual use of his name, you don’t see or hear it. Perhaps he took no note of it, even. He’d only told you his given name anyways. You pulled your shirt on over your head, lifting your arms up freely to fit it on you while he loomed behind you.

And why shouldn’t you? There was nothing for you to fear from him.

“Oh?” Amusement colored his voice, low and heady with barely contained eagerness. “Then tell me how you know me so well, savage. Our first meeting was hardly of note.”

“It wasn’t?” Your voice was colder than you wanted it to be.

He had the gall to laugh. _Unbelievable._ He’d won a single match, walked away unscathed after toying with you like a cat with his prey. And he left his enemy alive to seek revenge – the ultimate foolishness. Or it would be, if he were actually able to do it.

“You are superior, perhaps, to those I have faced before… and still you fell, like all the rest.” Blue eyes bored into you, pierced you, _burned_ like the clear sky of day. “You have not yet earned my regard, savage.”

His hand came up to your throat – or that’s where you assumed it had been going. You caught it, of course. By the wrist. There was a gap in his gauntlets between the arm and hand, as would be expected of a swordsman’s attire – to leave his hand free to twist and rotate as his various techniques might require.

Not that you’d seen Zenos exhibit any technique, you thought darkly to yourself. He had strange and powerful abilities, to be certain, but the sword in his hand had been by far the least of your worries; his strikes had been strong, but untrained. He had the blade of one, but Zenos was no samurai. Only a monster wielding a sword with a monster’s strength.

It took no small effort on your part to stop his hand in its tracks. His wrist was large, enough that your long fingers only just wrapped around it. But you held him still anyways, in a grip like a vice, staring straight into his eyes with uncontained malice.

Zenos smiled. Faint and light on his face, on his angelic features. At once you were forced to bring up another hand to keep his in place, to keep it from dragging past your chest and towards your neck.

“That’s killed a number of my enemies, you know.” You refused to be intimidated by his smile, by his strength. However wide the gap between you now, you were a far cry from everyone else he had beaten, and further still from the person you were so long ago. The person who could be underestimated, outrun. Those who did not regard you as a threat no longer had the privilege of living to regret it.

Fools. Highwaymen, Garlean troops, and Beastmen alike. How they did not know to run when they saw you, you didn’t know, but time and time again, they died for it. Thordan himself, the Heavensward, Nidhogg, had all died for their arrogance.

You held his wrist up to your face as though to examine it, even as you clenched it tightly. Far too tightly.

Even beneath the brace, you could tell his arm was thick, well muscled even as it tapered to the wrist. A swordsman’s hand.

“Anyone else,” You told him, still twisting his wrist as though to break it. Still failing. “And they’d be screaming right now. _Anyone_ else.”

There was no retort to meet your blunt statement, no arrogant remark. Slowly and deeply, you heard Zenos inhale, his gaze as serene as before. Pausing briefly, tasting the air, the sound of your words lingering there.

“Does it occur to you at all,” You continued, digging your fingers into his flesh and bone, “That I, too, have never encountered such a warrior? That before now, I had never met an enemy I could not defeat. I have faced gods, I have faced your fellow Legati and Legions and devices of peoples long past, Allag and otherwise.”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Perhaps he could feel the heat after all. Still, it did not seem to affect him; Zenos stares down at you, gaze heavy and heated.

“And it’s you,” You breathed to him, suddenly quiet. “You’re the first person to walk away from me unbeaten.”

You wanted to hear his wrist cracking. A sharp gasp of pain when you twisted too far. The tiniest of whimpers or groans.

Of course, he made no noise. Only gazed down upon you with those perfect lips, barely lifted in a smirk. His hand was even lax in your grip; Zenos made no attempt to move or even wrest it from you, he only watched as you squeezed out all your frustration, all your anger. You were pressing against his bone now, your nails would be digging into his skin had it been uncovered.

Your hand itself had gone numb a while ago. All you could feel was the press of his wrist against your grip, the iron resistance offered by mere bare flesh. He really was a monster.

Without hesitation you held his gaze, stared him down. Neither of you would break, so eventually he spoke up himself, attacking you with words where he would not deign to with weapons.

“You are weak.” His tone was lighter and strange to your ears. Rumbling not with amusement, but something strange and trembling. “It matters naught what you have done before. Now, you face _me._ ”

He leaned in and you realized, you saw it in his eyes, glittering away. His lips just barely tensed; smooth, porcelain features staring away at you with indifference like a perfect, hand carved mask.

Calling you weak and looking at you like that. So dismissive in his words – and so very controlled was his face, perfectly schooled into expressionless boredom when even his voice had heightened, a once heavy, low timbre now bursting with energy. Your lips curled into a sneer, returning his intensity with malice.

The hypocrite. You thought it even while looking the man in his eyes, tall and imposing as he was, even with his insult ringing in your ears. _Weak. Pathetic_. He said that to you without batting an eyelash, gazing at you from beneath the sooty, darkened lashes in a stare both lurid and focused all at once.

And yet Zenos had done naught to shake you off, to break your _weak_ hold on his hand. To rip your hand off him and throw you back like he had in the Reach. But he did not. Either he was unable, which you doubted - or Zenos _wanted_ you to be strong, he _wanted_ you to be…

Angry, you realized. He wanted you to be angry.

He was _taunting_ you.

And it was working. You were going along with it, you were allowing him to do this to you. You were _still_ clenching your hand on his wrist, applying pressure even as he laughed at your supposed weakness. You had to do something, do _anything,_ he couldn’t walk away from you unscathed. There was more to you than this – you were more than this. The light on your body showed it all too well.

That skin of his was so pale it may as well be light itself, radiant in the day, unmarred and even without a hint of imperfection. Was there a single scar on him, beneath the armor? One little nick, a single mark, that showed he was not invincible completely? An image comes to mind – fair skin darkening with bruises; purples, greens, painted on his skin just as the color of the crystal had been stained onto yours, had replaced your natural flesh with something more.

Then he could know how you felt. You blinked.

How could he know how you felt, looking down at you like that with those eyes? So smug, pleased with himself and your reaction, pleased with his own damn _control_ in not showing it all over his face. Zenos could _shove it._  

In an instant you released his arm. Trying in vain not to glare up at him, not to let your affronted malice show, you narrowed your eyes and stepped back.

Without missing a beat, Zenos stepped forward, erasing the space you created. He met your hateful gaze with even more enthusiasm, and you felt fire burning in your chest.

This man was not the master of you. No one was. You were not his _prey_ to be hunted, not a beast to be goaded and nipped into whatever course of action he wanted.

He was taller than you, the monster, as tall as you’d remembered. You only barely came up to his shoulder – _you!_ Warrior of Light who stood head and shoulders above near everyone. You wore _heels_ in combat. To this day you wondered what the armorer had been thinking, but your boots had not failed you yet.

“You’ve lost a sword, and I’ve gained a scar. At this rate, you’re bound to lose. Don’t presume to be my equal, when only one of us has grown stronger.”

True shock flitted through him, like lightning on a clear day. Out of place, instantaneous, and completely drowned out by his own radiance. You could barely tell it was there, in the widening of his eyes, the brightening of his irises as he rose a single brow.  

Eyes narrowed in interest, it was only a heartbeat before he closed the distance, pressing your still damp body against his own. Against burning metal armor, heated from the sun. You didn’t flinch away.

Still, you had to tilt your head up to keep his gaze; with him so close it was impossible not to. Zenos couldn’t quite tower over you, but his height was more than enough to loom, if a bit closely, and that was enough for you to want to _shove him down._

You didn’t, of course. Because you couldn’t. Not yet.

Not yet, you consoled yourself. His eyes bored holes in you, as you forced your fingers to unclench, relax just the slightest bit. You had nothing to lose from this encounter. He could not kill you.

As though he could hear your thoughts, his gaze grew heavier and heavier. And still he was beautiful; the sun left sharp, almost picturesque shadows on his face as he inclined it to look at you. Unconcerned, bored, even; only the smallest nuances of his expression betrayed even a hint of interest. You knew already he was not tensing beneath his armor, was not forcing himself to not reach for his blade; Zenos was entirely at easy in front of you, entirely unworried at the threat you posed.

He stared down at you with that beautiful indifferent face. Like a hunter watching a particularly exotic animal, comfortable in his superior position. What would his face look like darkened with dirt instead of shadows? Pale skin flushed red and bruised and bleeding as though he’d been in a _proper_ battle, not some one-sided duel he didn’t even deign to finish properly.

What would he say when you laid him low, put him on the ground, rubbed his pretty face in the dirt like he deserved? With _you_ towering above him by virtue of standing while he laid prone below. He would have to look up to see you. What would that face look like from above?

Not yet, you couldn’t. Oh, but just the thought of it…

“Grown stronger?” He said each word idly, languidly, as though considering the meaning even as he drawled each syllable out to you.

With great effort, you managed to keep your hands from clenching. Zenos, you suspected, could see it anyways. Even with his incredulity upon you, even with all his strength and height lording over you, you would _not_ be the first to look away.

More and more tempting the prospect of _showing_ him became in your mind. Until it was all you could think about – grinding his beautiful, _beautiful_ face into the dirt, pressing your boot into yielding flesh, crushing all resistance, wiping that wretched expression off his face –

Watching those dull eyes brighten in pain. It would look pretty, you were sure. Blue and vast like the sky, bright as the summer days.

“Yes.” You said, and no more.

It would do no good to fight here. For all your anger and indignation, for all you’d overcome gaps in power greater than this – you were still not as strong as him. Not even remotely. It was unbelievable, still, how someone could be so much stronger than you, when you were so much stronger than everyone else.

Something unknowable crossed his face, but his eyes were as clear as the summer’s sky, and unrelenting in their burning intensity. So blue and piercing it was almost cold. His gaze stoked something in you, something frenetic and sharp and unused to the light. As that small smile on his face grew, so did the feeling, the hot and eager frenzy you recognized immediately.

It wasn’t something you’d never used before, never felt, never seen. But to use it beneath this sun, in this place. To give in to Delirium..

The smirk itself wasn’t what did it. It was all of him, all of Zenos – his face, beautiful beyond measure, lips only lightly tilted in a smile that set your heart stuttering, his towering form, how you only just came up to his shoulders, that imposing armor and figure, making you think _things_ about what he looked like underneath –

It was him. It was all of him that was your undoing, that set you off into that state and saw your mind grasp at the madness, seizing any power it could from anywhere it could get it.

All of him, everything about him, Zenos himself just

Set. You. Off.

In an instant you were on him, hands on his neck, smooth skin yielding to your fingertips like water under your hands. Bending to your will. Caving in, soft and easy.

Not even a heartbeat passed before Zenos brought his hands up to meet yours, to pull them down at you thrust him into the air by the throat. Lifting him only a few inches, but still well off the ground.

You could feel it coursing through you, burning in an electric way the summer sun couldn’t hold a candle to. Frightening, intense, and powerful. A wellspring in the desert; a bottomless abyss for you to draw from. Zenos must have been pushing your arms away, must have been straining against you will all his inhuman might, but you felt none of it. No resistance.

All you felt was the pulse of his blood beneath your hands, hot and coursing through him, a match to the fervor that gathered in his eyes, in his grin.

Oh, but it was _euphoric._ To have this man that had called you pathetic at your mercy, struggling to get you off him, choking on his own weight as you help him up by the neck like a misbehaving kitten. With the aether flowing through you, heeding your call and rushing to your bidding with but a thought on your part, he was like a feather in your hands – or a sword. You dug your fingers into his throat, digging into the flesh, nearly smiling at the wetness that bloomed at your fingertips as his skin parted beneath your nails.

Zenos didn’t flinch, himself, not for a moment. He kept your gaze with interest, excitement, even, and if you watched closely you could see his eyes narrow as he strained his hands against your arm. Lighting again flashed in his eyes when he found he could not shake off your grip. Lashes fluttered, almost, and when he growled out a low chuckle you could _feel_ it rumbling in your hand.

He could only barely contain this – this _sensation,_ this swell of excitement and energy for which he had no name. It pulsed within him, driving him to search your eyes, your face, every ilm of you that had been so freely bared before. What sort of beast were you, to show yourself now? Had you been hiding your fangs all the while, or was it true that you had simply grown new ones?

And your new fangs had a bite to them. If he wanted to, he could probably wrest himself from your hold, but the idea of allowing you do to what you would was far more intriguing. Oh, how he longed to discover just what it was you could do to him in this state…

How you came upon this strength, Zenos cared not. What mattered was what you could do with it, and what you _would_ do with it. That delicious look of rage on your face, the joy he could see hidden beneath, the fire in your eyes as a mad grin fought to twist your ugly – _beautiful, **savage**_ – snarl or rage from your face.

It was perfect, too perfect. There were no words for how he felt, except perhaps _elated._ That a moment such as this would come, that there was one like you in this world who would face him; he had never imagined such a thing. Never imagined that there could be such a fitting end to his boredom, that something would rouse these feelings within him.

What would happen next, what would you do? He his heart was pounding, blood hot and thrumming; such a state he had never known. It was exhilarating, just looking at you made it grow stronger and stronger. All he could think was –

What would you do next?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doesn’t Zenos canonically seem a little… intimidated by the WoL?
> 
> Not exactly intimidated, obviously, but he isn’t resting on his laurels. He crushes the WoL once, and what does he do? Go catches Shinryu. You make an admirable effort against him? He creates the Resonantorium. Of course, the Resonant was a project he started a while ago (when he first read Gaius’s reports), but the idea still stands – Zenos wants to be stronger because of _you_. This isn't something he's doing on his own, he wants a reason to be stronger. He wants someone to push him, someone to be worth the effort of seeking out power. 
> 
> Zenos doesn’t face challenges as often and as great as the WoL does, because he's already faced all those challenges, already reached what he considers the height of his power. WoL isn't anything like that - we're constantly leveling, we're always gaing exp and learning the mechanics and behaviors of enemies, etc. People often learn more from failure than they do from success. Zenos hasn’t ever lost to anyone, so how does he know what his weaknesses are? No one has been able to take advantage of it yet, but in an equal fight, Zenos just… can’t. He’s never been in an equal fight. Does he even know what to do against an enemy who’s as strong as he is? WoL does. WoL knows what to do against enemies that are stronger than she is. Zenos has never even imagined the possibility. Until after he meets you.  
> “Mayhap it is time I sharpen my claws…”  
> “I, too, sought newfound strength!” 
> 
> After meeting the WoL, Zenos starts to get worked up. Despite the fact that he handily beats you the first meeting, and beats you again the second (though you do put up a better fight, there), Zenos seems to decide he needs to become more powerful, himself. In part, I imagine, this is because the WoL becomes more powerful over time, and he wants to match that, but ultimately – as this fic suggests – I think he was at least a little bit intimidated by this enemy that he could not kill. 
> 
> Even when he defeats you at Rhalgr’s Reach, his sword breaks and you walk away essentially unharmed. Most people subscribe to the “Echo shows you visions of what could have happened, and that’s all your failed runs”, but from the single-player, 1v1 storyline that Zenos presents, I prefer the more meta/eclectic theories where the WoL is straight-up some strange immortal demigod/god-in-the-making. If you’ve ever seen “Land of the Lustrous”, WoL’s scars basically look like what happens to the characters there when they get hurt.  
> https://i.imgur.com/9vOr3dX.jpg  
> https://www.syfy.com/sites/syfy/files/styles/1100xauto/public/lustrous07.jpg?timestamp=1527572530


	2. Unyielding

What would you do next? The question burned and burned into your mind, he required and answer – demanded it. Zenos simply could not wait to see more of this, more of you.

In his eyes he saw the answer, but on his neck he felt another. Fury coated your face, twisting your features. It was easy to tell you were in for the kill, with no thought to anything else. He could see it in your eyes; how the feeling of his skin yielding beneath your claws affected you as your fingers clung to his flesh, unwilling to let go.

You tried to squeeze down, squeeze harder, but with a hint of panic you realized your hand wasn’t responding to your commands. All the feeling you could get from it was lighting shooting through your hand, electrifying your fingertips, tingling uselessly as you could no longer summon the energy to move them. Even when you did try to release, all you could do was watch your arm stay still stretched out in front of you, clutching down like a vice on his neck while his hands rose from his sides to shove you off.

The metal against your bare arm burned, even as it was flung away, swinging limply to your side, suddenly tired and hot with exertion.

Suddenly your strength was gone, the Delirium spent and faded like the water in the desert air. As though it had never been. That was all it took for you to drop him, for him to cast off your hold. Instinctively, you took a step away, but he left no room for you to retreat, to withdraw.

The hunter had caught on to your moment of weakness, your burst of energy. Not for a second did his attention waver, his focus absolute; this opportunity would be allowed to pass him by.

Zenos closed the distance between your bodies at once, pressing his front against yours, metal scraping against your unarmored body. Searing with its heat against your bare skin as though it was fresh and red hot off the furnace, burning holes in the clothing you’d managed to pull on.

Still, it was nothing compared to his face.

That insufferable beautiful face, leaning in to the side of your head. Something soft brushed against your shoulder, smooth and faintly brushing. His hair.

From his position he shouldn’t have been able to see your face. Still, you fixed your features into stony indifference, hardening at the confidence that Zenos radiated, his smile smooth and slight and somehow audible as he neared your ear.

And he _was_ entertained; Zenos chuckled into your ear, so close and loud you had to suppress a shudder. You couldn’t stop a sharp inhalation when his tongue flicked out, tracing the skin from above your earlobe to the very tip, lips closing on as though to take it into his mouth. To bite. But he did not – instead his tongue slid down the terribly fragile cartilage, smooth and slippery and terribly thrilling.

Every twist and writhe of the wet appendage left heavy lines of sensation against the tender shell of your ear; all so close that you could almost hear it over the sound of his breath brushing against newly wetted skin.

Only by the barest of margins did you manage not to whimper when his teeth dug in, not cutting drawing blood, but coming close. There was no way Zenos knew anything about elezen, about how sensitive your ears are. But gods, if it didn’t make you want to cry out.

And bite him back. You’d seen his flimsy little hyur ears; at least one of them was exposed without his helmet, curving almost cutely with his hair tucked back behind it. Did Zenos know how hard he’d bitten down on you? He deserved to know. He deserved to know _intimately,_ in detail, to be bit back just a little harder to give him something to really remember. Wasn’t there some old saying that the trick to cowing a disobedient hound was to bite the animal on its ear?

Maybe Zenos had heard of that as well. Maybe that was why he had done it. There was no way he’d ever imagined it happening to himself, someone else overpowering him.

Would he cry? Wince away? They both seemed unlikely, but then, it seemed impossible that you could even get into that position from where you were now. For you to get to the side of his head like that – the only way to do it would be to _bring him down._

“Yes, that is very brave and noble of you, champion of the savages.” He whispered to you. “But you know as well as I that it is all for naught if you cannot support your words.”

Champion of the _savages._ _Champion of the **savages.**_

He dared to call you that in that smug drawl, smirking all the while. Watching you intently from beneath hooded eyes like some kind of beast himself fixed on his prey. He called you savage. What did he know, carrying around his stolen swords, through this stolen nation, swinging them around in battle with heartless efficiency and not a hint of a samurai’s dedicated passion?

Nothing about him was Garlean expect the Third Eye. His fighting, his manner of battle, the bored lilt of his voice as he fought you; it was nothing like Cid or Gaius or Varis or _any_ Garlean you had ever met. Concentrativity, Vein Splitter, those glowing blades he cast out that seemed to be made purely of aether. He was a _Garlean._

He’d even stolen away the one advantage Eorzeans had over his race. The one thing you and your allies could do that the Garleans could not, and Zenos had seized it somehow, made it his own in his own power, without help. His easy confidence in battle could not have been taught to him. His mannerisms were too strange; walking slowly, lashing out with the blade in movements that seemed more for – for fun, almost. Like he was testing feel of the weapon gliding through the air, measuring its reach and motion. He’d probably never used such a weapon before going to ‘quell’ the Doman rebellion. Put down their savage revolt.

And now he meant to do the same here. Talking down to you as though he had any right to, as though he had seen the measure of your being and judged you unworthy. Dismissed you without a thought.

Did he even know what the word Champion _meant?_ You’d been called the Champion of _Eorzea._ Of the Alliance. Doubtless this war would take you elsewhere to champion yet more peoples, fell more gods, defeat more armies. His own, most likely. Zenos knew nothing of your history, or he knew and thought nothing of it – you weren’t sure which one was more insulting, honestly.

The lips left your ear and you felt him rest his head on your shoulder, leaning forwards to be able to do so. His nose brushed against your ear as he did so, and you turned your head to the side to keep him from pressing it. All that separated his skin from yours was your thin shirt, all that separated your neck from his mouth was the hot, burning summer air.

Even his breath against your skin was cool. You could let him stay there, on your shoulder, until he felt like talking, felt like gracing you with a response. Even now his words echoed in your mind, in that low, heady voice. Taunting.

“You’ll have to do better than that.” You said, cupping his pretty face in one hand even as you pushed it away.

It was like holding silk in your hands, so impossibly smooth against your palm, skin warm and radiant as the day. Someone as fair as him should be burning up, but he wasn’t, just like you weren’t _._ If the sun could burn you, after all, you’d have had a terrible time with Ifrit’s flames.

Your move worked surprisingly well; his body was tense and ready to absorb the force, but Zenos had clearly not been expecting your palm curved gently about his cheek, pressing firmly but with no true strength behind it. His head twisted to the side at the sudden push, though his eyes remained fixed on you even from the corner of his gaze.

A heartbeat passed, a blink.

And that was all it took for him to have you on the ground before him.

“Better, you say?” Zenos drawled.

He could still feel it – the hand on his cheek. Cool from the water, somehow soft and uncalloused despite your obvious background as a warrior. It burned like ice.

The heat was of no matter. He had trained in this. Done his dull exercises and routines regularly in this stagnant, sweltering desert. One motion to the next, practicing swings, feeling the blade glide easily, uselessly through the empty air. Pointless, every last one of them.

Over and over until he had almost felt like disobeying his father’s orders, marching on the Eorzeans, just to have something to _do._ Besides mindlessly repeat drills he had known by heart already, hone the edge of his blade against the vacant space before him. Refining his techniques that had long since become impossible to improve; there was no difference either way between killing instantly one way any killing instantly another.

Until someone hadn’t been killed instantly. When that Ala Mhigan girl had come up with the plan to raid the Reach, he had expected little to come of it. And still he had been disappointed. Naught of note had happened at the Reach. Except…

This creature before him, this – _Warrior of Light_ – you had shown promise, perhaps. But nothing extraordinary, nothing that could not be crushed like all the others. This entire time you’d been given free reign and you had not managed more than a tight hold on his neck, lifting him up for but a mere moment of strength and then-

And somehow, with that cool palm against his skin the heat was plain now, as though it had always been. ‘Twas impossible to fail to mistake the feeling of the sun on his face, the faint burn of the overbearing sunlight. As unmistakable as that fire in your eyes, the hate – indistinguishable from those pitiful creatures, the Domans, the Ala Mhigan Resistance.

So weak you were. Weak. Unable to stop him, pinned beneath him with nary a thought.

Struggling. Looking up at him with those eyes.

Better. Better, you had said. How much better was this? Was this good enough? He pressed his boot down harder onto your chest, the weight of it keeping you down. It was effortless. Easy. He could see you struggling, see your eyes alight with rage. Like all the others, it would not save you.

How far from that beast of moments ago – that warrior who had dared to jab at him so impetuously. Latched onto his throat hard and fast and ready to kill, until your strength had failed you and you fell back to this pathetic state once more. Paralyzed in your rage, unable to do aught but claw at him in anger. Do better? He had not done better.

A bead of – not sweat, it must have been water – rolled down his cheek, sudden and unexpected. You were still glaring, struggling, but the shine of sunlight on your skin makes it obvious you hadn’t completely dried. When he had leaned in, then. How strange it had evaded notice until now; you’d been in the water moments ago. It should have been obvious.

He had not noticed, not bothered with such a detail when closing in on you. Had not done better. Only taken the logical course of action, only destroyed all opposition, as always. Crushing you beneath him. Only what would have happened from the beginning, had you not shown that inexplicable surge of strength, of promise.

Only what it should have been from the first. What he would have been able to do at the Reach, and when he happened upon you here.

Not better _._ He had not done better _._

And still it was enough to reduce you to this. Unable to move, prone on the ground. At his mercy completely.

So how… how were you able to look up upon him so, from so far beneath? From below his boot, sharp metal digging into soft fabric and softer flesh. Like walking on grass, bending quickly to his steps, your flesh gave beneath him.

“Yes, _better._ ”

Zenos blinked. And stared.

You met his indifferent gaze with a grin, baring your teeth even as you clutched at the foot above your stomach. It hurt, but not enough. It would never hurt enough to kill you. Nothing would.

“You can do better than that, can’t you?” You asked, watching with near giddiness as indifference gave way to confusion, to surprise.

Anything was better than that stiff derision. Looking down at you like you were some beast that had failed to perform, a trained animal that refused to do the trick he was asking for. Like he had any right to expect anything from you. Like _you_ would ever perform for _him._

He was silent above you, only looking down at you like he might at a dog that had lashed out, bitten him. Good. He deserved it. All of that and more. You’d bite his hand off, take his whole arm. Teach him to think he could walk away from you unscathed. He might be stronger than you, but he’d lose _something_ today, to you.

And, you thought, your grin sharpening with your eyes, your gaze, you knew exactly what you’d take from him.

Zenos watched, he heard, your words came to him and he understood them but he did not follow, did not see. All he saw was that face looking up at him, unafraid. Eyes glittering in the sunlight, even as your skin shone with moisture, still not dried by the sun.

“Go on!” You urged, _crowed._

From underneath him. From underneath him you said these things. He added more weight on you, stepping hard into unarmored flesh. Watching the ferocity in your eyes brighten in pain, your smile strain and pupils narrow. But still you looked up at him with that unyielding savagery. As though you were the one above him looking down. All that pain, all that pressure and his very presence, and that was how you acted in the face of death.

He returned your smile if only to see how you would react.

You didn’t.

Unabated the fire blazed in your eyes, however hard he bored down, however cruel he smirked. “Do it. Do it!”

And now you had commanded him. To kill you. You had _commanded_ him to go through with it. The arrogance, the impetuousness, to say such a thing in the face of certain death. Your hands on his ankle may as well be made of glass; a sharp jerk would be enough to shake them off. They did nothing to stop him from applying pressure, from sinking his boot into your chest, but from what he could feel of them against his boot he could tell you must be straining as best you could.

Such bravado. New, perhaps, and interesting, but a far cry from before. It held nothing to how it had been, to have nails buried into his neck and pain blooming on his arm. The face before him is not the one of a woman who longs for death; that he had seen before, on countless faces over and over, so similar they all blended unrecognizably in his memory. And again, and again.

He couldn’t hear your ribs crack just yet, hadn’t felt bone yield to his weight, but it was only a matter of time.

“Go on, kill me! _Do it!_ ”

It was the smile that did it – that smile was too much. Filled with teeth, bared at him as though they were even the tiniest bit of a threat. What exactly was this creature below him? In the face of certain death, not a hint of fear. Only that commanding attitude, even in the face of his strength – even knowing his strength was greater than yours.

What was this? What were you playing at, what were you _thinking,_ telling him to kill you? To save your own pride – you were being crushed under his boot, you had no dignity left, a warrior such as yourself _had_ to know, there was no dignity in death. Only in victory, only in survival. To stave off your own cowardice – then he would see it, he would have recognized it. To coerce him not to do so, because you had commanded – that nearly drew a scoff from his lips aloud. No, you wouldn’t dare to bluff.

So many answers felt incomplete. Unsatisfactory. He longed to discover. Just what was going to happen?

“What are you waiting for? Are you afraid?”

Even from your position right here and now – even with your impending doom, when you had just moments ago somehow had the power to fight him! And it would all be lost here because of your antagonism, because of your _weakness._

More and more you taunt him. Why would he be afraid? To even _ask_ such a thing was absurdity of the highest degree. A chuckle died in his throat at the sight of your eyes, your grin. He wanted to laugh, but that would be showing you too much, granting you a reaction you hadn’t earned.

“Do it. Kill me, if you can.” Your voice was quieter now, almost calm.

It was impossible that you had planned any of this. Anticipating his arrival here would have been impossible, to say nothing of the impossibility of your current predicament. There was no way out for you now; your fate had been decided when your boasts had proved unfounded. There could be nothing more annoying than having you show that sliver of promise, only to fade away and out of his grasp before he had a chance to feel it pierce through him.

Nothing more insolent than you commanding him here and now from that position beneath him, seemingly clinging to some shred of dignity – acting as though you had any measure of power over him.

Your smile hadn’t changed, your eyes hadn’t changed, fearless and scathing and absolutely unflinching in the face of him looking down on you. Telling him in that collected voice to kill you. _If he could._

He wanted to do it – to obey you. To think of it so was useless, of course, because he had well enough reasons of his own to slay you here and now. As he had not done in the Reach. What were your pitiful words in the face of power? If you wanted to command him, you should have been stronger than him. Should have kept your hands on his throat.

But you were weak. No better than all the others. Absolutely no better.

Zenos drew his weapon in a single deft motion, watching the light gleam on the metal before kneeling into place, straddling your body. Leaning in close, enough to see vividly every last detail of your face when you saw the blade closing in so that you were within its reach.

Hm. In the face of death, you did not break his gaze for even a heartbeat. Your courage was commendable, but alas, your strength was sorely lacking, and that was all that mattered. Readying the blade, letting it hang in the air just so. Lingering long enough that he could try and spy fear on your face, hear the quickening of breath or the pounding of your heart; it was futile, it seemed. All there was to see was a razor precision, honed onto his sword and following its every motion, as any good warrior would.

With a natural ease the movement came to him, smooth and powerful and entirely merciless. Down he struck, this time not bothering with your chest, your heart.

No. Now he went for the throat.

Zenos had but a heartbeat to decide. To watch your arms or body for your reaction, or to look into your face. He did feel like looking into your eyes while he killed you. Those eyes that hadn’t averted their gaze for a second, had taken his stare and his weight and kept on looking up at him as though he was beneath you.

He knew now what you were seeing that allowed you to look at him so, but surely you could not continue with his blade in your neck. Surely your sense of touch would tell you were your vision had failed.

The blade rent through the air and he knew the instant it hit you, pierced your skin and sent blood blooming from the open wound.

He knew the instant it hit you, and he knew instantly that it _was not enough._

The blade dug in, yes. He threw his weight behind the stroke, the whole of his strength, pressing down with his all. Pushing the blade into your flesh, only to have it stop, hard.

‘Twas as clear to him as your face in the daylight, as your body beneath him. If he continued naught would be ruined except perhaps his sword. This could cut you, hurt you, perhaps – he watched with some strange feeling as pain flooded your eyes, pupils dilating, breaths coming in gasps – and still you breathed. And still you struggled.

If you weren’t going to die – what _would_ you do? What _could_ you do? Run away and lick your wounds? Nay, the fire in your eyes, the hands on his ankle spoke all to clearly what you’d think of that idea. And even more clearly, what was possible for you. And what was not.

You had not the _strength_ to kill him. That had been plain from the first, but what had not been obvious was that he… could not kill you.

At the Reach – no one should have survived that final blow. And somehow you had broken the blade with your body, rent it in two even as you were flung back, defeated.

It is confirmed. This… this was not enough to kill you. And yet, your desperate struggle against his crushing weight, in your every breath through that cut throat, your eyes staring up at him; it easily bespoke your struggle, a burning desire – not to escape, not for mere survival, no. To _win,_ to tear your victory from his grasp as surely as you had clutched his neck with that delicious strength, barely enough but still enough to leave the promise of so much more.

To leave the imprint of your fingers on his neck even as you ripped his breath away, left his throat raw with pants of exertion, made _him_ struggle against _your_ strength. So plain to see, so open and honest in your eyes, this fervent desire. Borne from what, he knew not, cared not; all that mattered was that you were here before him _now._ A being of blood and flesh, coated in light and crystal where that flesh had failed. Otherworldly in your power and still so very weak. So helpless beneath him, unable to remove him from above you…

_Don’t presume to be my equal, when only one of us has grown stronger._

…And yet, even after what should have been a mortal blow, here you remained, grinning up at him. ‘Twas not the way of a cornered beast. The fools and cowards and weaklings he had slain, their eyes held naught to yours, shining like the light on your body, the scars where all before him had failed to kill you. You were beneath him now, but…

“What are you waiting for?” Your low voice asked him, hardened and rough with pain, with the pressure on your chest and the gash on your neck.

More and more Zenos stared down, not glancing away from your eyes for even a heartbeat. If he recalled correctly, he hadn’t been able to look away once this whole time. Those _eyes,_ burning with a passion not quite like that he’d seen before, backed with that fleeting, pitiful strength…

This was it – what had gotten his attention. The sight of blood, bright and red and weeping from your neck from his vicious slash, it was unlike all others he had faced. Beyond them. Lesser men had died of these wounds, great warriors and all others that he’d faced – they would have died from this. No one could survive this.

With the way the Domans had begged, the way they cried and screamed and cowered to this day like pitiful beasts of prey, no one would have _wanted_ to. Being crushed beneath him would have broken anyone’s spirit. Being _defeated_ – at the Reach, it would have sent anyone else running away with their tail between the legs. Flinching back like a child that had only just discovered the burn of the flames.

And yet you – you looked up at him with those eyes, those _eyes_ so filled with a fire of their own. Pursuing the flame relentlessly, unperturbed by the burns, ready to grasp your victory from the fire with your bare hands if need be. Unrelenting… unyielding before his blade. Before all his power and might, his efforts to kill you.

It wasn’t enough to clear that look from your eyes. _He_ wasn’t enough.

You stared up at him grinning wickedly, as though delighted by the cut on your throat that would surely scar – another mark of light in your collection, mayhap. But for now it seeped over your skin, pouring from your throat and over the sides of your neck in what would be a mortal would – should be a mortal wound, a wound you could not stop him from giving you.

For now you were beneath him. Powerless to stop him, and you both knew it. And you were looking up at him as though you had won, and not been dealt a killing blow from an enemy you were helpless against.

A droplet of blood slid down his neck, a gentle trickle entirely out of place for angry cut it had bled from. Almost automatically, his hand neared his throat, reaching upwards until belatedly he noticed the motion.

Well. The strength to survive, to persevere in your goals – that was not enough to defeat him, but it was not entirely worthless.

Zenos lifted his boot, steps away. He’d grant you that much. And no more. You had not earned his respect, his response. You could sit there and choke on your own weakness – choke until you died, and arose as the warrior you were moments ago.

He left without a word, before you could follow or attack him.

 

 

You did choke. Not on blood, but on your pride.

However much you’d taunted him – the triumph you’d felt when you saw it in his eyes, saw him realize he _couldn’t kill you,_ **he** was the weak one –

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

You crawled to the sprint and washed your neck, your shirt. Your chest hurt like hell, a bruise in the center in the shape of the boot that had crushed it. A few hours and it would be healed. You could heal it now, even, save yourself the aching pain every time you twisted your torso, every time you even _moved._

You didn’t.

Pulling on fresh clothes, your armor, you stood. Body crying out in pain. Aching agony swelled in your throat, in your chest, radiating throughout your whole body. Burning up in the heat. Bandages wrapped about your neck, covered with a shawl that no one would bother to ask about. No one would imagine something like this could happen to you. To the _Warrior of Light._ Their own _personal eikon slayer._

Their hero. Just the thought of it tore a scoff from your throat, a painful thing that made you cough once, twice, before you just pulled out some water and drank as deeply as you could.

Even the sun was too glaring for your eyes. Painfully bright, gold against a brilliant blue background. It made you think of his eyes. Of him looking down on you.

That face carved from marble, not the least bit red from the heat, unmarked and flawless in every way. Gleaming hair pouring over his shoulders like liquid daylight. His lips on your ears, his _teeth_ digging into sensitive flesh, as piercing as the blinding rays of the desert sun. Jolting through you, sending pangs all over, electrifying your every sense.

Giving you that fucking smile, so self-assured and derisive. Smiling at you like that, looking down on you like that when he swung to kill.

Some hero you were.

You’d never wanted to destroy a man more in your entire life.

 

 

 

Zenos returned with a smile, one that terrified each person who saw him out of inquiring as to his recent whereabouts.  

Had anyone asked, he would have gazed past them and responded – ‘Surveying my prey’, and perhaps even spare the asker for having had the courage to question him. Or perhaps not. He had found a new standard to hold his peers to, and Zenos had no doubt each and every soul he met would fail to live up to your example.

 _You_ had failed to live up to your example – only for a few fleeting moments had the beast he longed for shown itself, bared its fangs in your face and lashed out with your claws; the beast you _really_ were. And that was enough for it to matter; it was all that mattered. Even as he walked the halls, stalking through with a purpose to his step he had never recalled having, the memory of it echoed like his boots clapping against the stone floors.

It had been a mere glimpse of what lied beneath your stoic hero’s countenance, a taste. Such a pleasure it was, to tangle with so deadly a creature, a rare delicacy that disappeared on his tongue as soon as he could savor it. Even the _feel_ of your hands on his arm, on his neck – the most reserved and tender of taps when you held the potential to do _so much more_ – it lingered on his skin, as though the air was hot against it, as though you’d left scalding marks in your wake.

A glimpse of a beast that knew no mercy, no fear; only the savage pleasures of feeling its prey beneath it. The joy of the hunt, of _dominance,_ having others bend to your will; the thrill of absolute power such that only the strong were afforded.

A beast so alike to him; a beast worth his hunting. For if your claim rang true, he would see this beast again, more ferocious than before, and – he couldn’t stop his lips from upturning at the thought of it – if your parting was any indication, you would be even more ferocious than before.

The look on your face as you tried desperately to squeeze the life from his throat had been an image like no other, burned into his mind as your nails had branded his skin.

Zenos had never understood the pleasures of wine, of feasts and pleasures of the flesh, as some were wont to call it. But he could have savored your snarling face, contorted with wrath and malicious joy for an eternity. Held your hand against his throat, smiled and taunted at you – squeeze _harder,_ savage. Do better. More. More!

And to have seen that own sentiment echoed in your eyes, in your _soul_ – it filled him only with further excitement, heated his blood further and further still.  

He’d never known what it looked like, to have someone hold back a smile from him. Was that how he had looked – long ago, when there was still joy to be had in trouncing far older and more experienced opponents – when he cast down his foes? When he had overpowered his trainer, watched his eyes brighten with panic and dart around the arena like a frightened animal searching for escape?

The man had sneered at him, named him unworthy of the technique he discovered. How ironic that his trainer had considered the abilities good enough to use on him, but not good enough to teach; he had confidently lashed out at his young charge, beaten him ruthlessly and without mercy.

And a fine teacher he had turned out to be – perhaps his finest to this day. With blood and sweat and the hours and days of one’s life; all great lessons were purchased with such currency. No matter how reluctant the seller was to give them.

While his trainer had only found his growth outrageous, only noticed it at the last moment and fought it once it was too late, he knew naught but joy for your newfound strength. How great would you be when next you met, how much more strength would you have – how hard would you fight? Your snarling face returned to him once again.

Zenos would count the seconds until he saw that face again, hard like steel warped by the heat of battle. Bright and burning even as it cooled and hardened and reshaped itself into something new. As much tempered by his own prowess as you were provoked by it. The fury he had seen in your eyes, the utter rage and humiliation of a warrior’s damaged pride –

‘Twas exquisite to behold; a true spectacle that took place in but a heated moment when you met his eyes. It wasn’t new at all, this anger; what was new was that you could _do something_ with it. Only your strength separated you from the droves who had fallen like insects before him. Whom he had killed without a second thought. But you had gotten back up, you had thrown yourself against him once more, unafraid, refusing to be cowed, determined to match his might and grow stronger yourself.

That would be the true art his great grandfather had droned on about – _that_ would be the true theatre of man, the stage upon which the measure of your life _and_ his could be set against one another.

At last he came to his room – just what he wanted to see, _finally._ Zenos tore off his chestpiece, tossing it aside without care, and strode over to the mirror, eyes fixed on his own neck.

Just the sight of it – of his pale skin darkened, bruises forming blotchy on otherwise toned flesh – was absolutely thrilling. A vibrant red that blossomed into purple, sore and hot and burning with pain, with feeling. A collar of roses, as some frivolous poet might describe. It made him think of the Menagerie, of the worthless creatures contained there. Of what he would hold captive there.

Bright red like those flowers, spotting about his neck, crescents where your claws had been.

Zenos had never cared for paintings. But this was a mark he would gladly retain, a prize, a work of art whose worth far exceeded such drab, static images. It was beautiful, even.

He held up a hand to his neck, feeling the skin there, soft and hot and enflamed. Squeezing lightly.

Immediately, it _hurt._ A pain shot through his throat, his neck, where his breath caught at the sharpness of it. Flesh sore and beginning even to swell, by the looks of it.

The solution to that was plain. Add ice or some other cooling substance on such wounds to chill the swelling, numb the pain. It would heal quickly on its own, but a poultice or salve would quicken the process. Dull the nerves.

For what possible reason should he _ever_ want it to hurt any less? The answer does not come to him and he does not desire it. Applying pressure once more, and gasping in a sharp breath, he allowed himself a smile – a grin.

At least for now, the mark is clear on his skin. Not a match to the gash on your throat – not yet. Your claws were not sharp enough to do any lasting harm.

Zenos blinked. The memory of your skin, spotted with light, shining and unbroken even with all the wounds you must have incurred. You could do him no lasting harm, he thought, stroking those small cuts against his skin as he chuckle out a bare and breathless laugh. That cut on your neck that should have severed your throat – this coil of cuts and bruises around his, not nearly fatal –

It wasn’t enough. Neither of you were enough. Yet.

It would disappear in a day or so. No mark, no bruise, only the memory of the pain and the sight of it on him.

Oh yes. _Yes._

He’d meet you again. Hunt you down if he had to – but he suspected he would not. You’d find him again. He was marked as your prey, just as much as you were his –

_“You’ve lost a sword, and I’ve gained a scar. At this rate, you’re bound to lose. Don’t presume to be my equal, when only one of us has grown stronger.”_

…And mayhap it was time to act like it.

Zenos’s lips curved upwards lightly, just on one side.

Just how far would you go, you pitiful creature that could not stop him from casting you down? Just how strong could you become? This warrior who had left a collar of blood on his neck… when next would you meet?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can pry my early 2000s movies references out of my cold dead hands. Snowdogs was amazing and nothing will ever change my mind about it. 
> 
> Zenos’s tiny little smile in his first introduction and in your second battle against him are… the best??? I love??? Big favorite?
> 
> Anyways, elezen need more love. From now on I am an elezen only writer. All my WoLs I write are elezen. Tbh I don’t ever mention races or ears and I rarely mention heights, so I guess technically they’re not, but… in my heart, they are all elezen. Husbandos aside, elezen are like an endangered species. FemRoe also welcome, being even more endangered (for some reason they don't have pointy ears?? Square why??).You must be at least this tall to ride the Zenos. 
> 
> Fun fact, though – apparently all the Garleans in the game (except for ONE short, bearded boi who looks absolutely RIDICULOUSLY smol in his scenes with Nero) use the elezen body model, or at least some modified version of it. Maxima is a prime example. Also elezen think hyur ears are cute, especially elezen in Ishgard or Gridania who spend most of their time around other elezen.


End file.
